


Winter never lasts forever

by Silveriss



Series: When the frost is in bloom [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: A whole lot of smoking, Also featuring Andrew's addiction to hot cocoa, Alternate Universe - Jack Frost, Alternate Universe - Rise of the Guardians, Angst, Flashbacks, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I have never been in Stuttgart so I'm sorry if the descriptions are off I did my best, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jack Frost!Neil, M/M, Some references to German folklore just because, Temporary Amnesia, Winter, Winter spirit!Neil, You do not need to know anything about Jack Frost to read this, also AU where Nicky took the twins back to Germany with him after Tilda's death, as in Neil is Jack Frost, well actually more like, with my own take on the character, writer!Andrew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-12 21:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18018794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silveriss/pseuds/Silveriss
Summary: The cold is the first thing that Nathaniel notices when he wakes up. Everything is numb with it. How he ended up here or who he is, how old - none of this feels as certain as the cold filling his chest and bringing the wind down with the snow.Winter never lasts forever, but for Nathaniel it might as well.





	Winter never lasts forever

**Author's Note:**

> I started reading fanfictions because of Jack Frost (Jelsa was my jam when I was in middle school), so something like this was bound to happen. Now that the circle has been completed, I'm gonna be able to go back to writing the long TFC Fantasy AU of my dreams.  
> I wrote this one-shot as part of a writing challenge I'm doing based on a list of sensory prompt, btw. The one I used here was "trying to walk on ice".
> 
> A big thank you to my dear friends and betas, madeshika and nichanana, who are seriously the best.
> 
> If any of you feel like adding some music to the experience, I got struck by inspiration while listening to Woodkid and kept listening to him on repeat while writing this, along with the album The Weight of Your Love by Editors. Other sources of inspiration include Agap's writing (agapantoblu on tumblr) and aymmidumps' art, mostly, but also basically every single writer and artist in this fandom because they're amazing.
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy!
> 
> (TW: smoking, scars, implied/referenced child abuse, temporary amnesia and somewhat violent flashbacks)

Cold.

It’s the first thing he notices.

Everything is numb with it.

Then _pain_ \- a spike of it, sharp and sudden, puncturing his lungs - a burst of white, and it dawns on him like a hawk:

He’s underwater.

Panic. It clears his mind but makes him try to breathe, too, and the cold surges in to rip his lungs to shreds. He closes his mouth and twists frantically around, looking for light, battling with his empty mind for fractured thoughts and wild instincts. As soon as his eyes find the direction that the light is coming from he starts kicking, willing his limbs to start _moving_ , shaking the cold’s claws off with rage.

The surface is frozen.

Panic, again, _dread_ floods in. He presses his hands against the ice, ignores how it bites and tears at his skin with teeth and hits. It’s too weak, of course - another spike pierces his chest. He gasps. Everything is white and sharp and bright - until the cold reverses, and suddenly it’s coming _out_ , not in, and the light is piercing and everything -

 _Everything_ shatters.

Nathaniel feels himself rise ( _Nathaniel_. His name is Nathaniel) out of the water. His chest burns as he tries to cough and inhale all at once, but pain has never been more welcome than when the air fills his lungs.

He opens his eyes.

The lake lies right down under, slithered ice broken open several meters below him. Pine trees coated with snow are huddling close around it, splotches of dark green peeking out of the all-enveloping whiteness. The sky is crisp blue, so flat he could touch it; so close it could be a paper dome.

Nathaniel is _flying_.

It takes a few seconds for his brain to process the thought, but the panic is quick to come back. He starts flailing his arms around - and freezes, immediately, as something hard knocks his leg.

Somehow, in the quick succession of events, Nathaniel hadn’t noticed that he was holding onto something in his right hand - a long stick, of all things, and not rotten in the slightest, despite staying in the water for… as long as Nathaniel had been stuck there. Since he is still breathing, logically it couldn’t have been that long - but something in him feels he has just woken up from a long, long sleep, and somehow he doubts he’d just barely fallen into the water. There are no other cracks wide enough for a person in the ice, aside from the one he just made breaking out. And, well. There is the fact that he _has_ broken out, and is still high up in the air floating.

When he tries to remember how he got underwater, he finds nothing.

His memory is blank.

His name is Nathaniel. His age… he isn’t old, but neither is he a child. Where… He’s in a forest, obviously. Presumably in the middle of winter. But who…

Nathaniel floats down, softly landing on wobbly legs and a blanket of snow. He is barefoot, but somehow the snow doesn’t bite his skin. The cold feels… strange, and familiar all the same. Not only can he feel it in the snow, but it’s in him as well, and emanating _from_ him, like a shell. Nathaniel kneels in the snow and picks a piece of ice off of the lake. He wipes it clear.

His hair is white. Oddly white - frosted, almost. Clear eyes. Paler than skin ought to be. He looks young. He isn’t a teenager - most likely he is in his early twenties. Something in him recognises the blurry face looking back at him, but it looks wrong, somehow. He drops the piece of ice back in the lake and brings a hand to his hair, twirling a strand between his fingers. What color did it use to be?

There’s something else he can’t pinpoint about his face that doesn’t sit right, but not in the same way as the color of his hair or the paleness of his skin. Something flickers in and out of his mind but just as he’s about to grab the thought his ribcage starts feeling tight - so he lets it go.

There is nothing in his pockets. He’s wearing jeans, a tee-shirt and a sweater, and it shouldn’t be enough to ward away the cold, but yet somehow he’s not freezing. That he’s cold is undeniable, but that’s the thing - _he is cold_. As cold as the air around him, if not more.

Something flutters in his chest at the thought and he tugs at it this time, lets it expand. It tingles, and flows, and his staff lights up with it. Nathaniel aims one end at the lake, then lets the feeling out - _cold_ pours out, filling the cracks with white until the lake is an immaculate sheet of ice again.

He follows the feeling to the middle of the lake, and lets it expand again, without pushing it into his staff this time. A breeze picks up, then a gust that quickly turns into a flurry. The trees moan in the wind as Nathaniel starts to rise up into the sky, calling clouds and bringing them down, down until they engulf the trees, swallowing all colors in a sea of white.

He closes his eyes, and lets the cold take over.

 

*

 

A few days later, the wind tells him to go South.

He follows it.

The forest is wide, but he leaves it behind by the end of the day. The storm withers to a light snow, snowflakes dancing in the air as Nathaniel lets the wind carry him lower and lower, to the small town below. He blows a gust of wind over the roofs and into the streets, picking up fresh snow as he flies by, making frost bloom on windows with the tips of his fingers. Kids giggle when he goes past and adults hunch over, tightening their coats and hurrying down the streets.

No one sees him.

 

*

 

It isn’t until weeks have passed that Nathaniel realizes he can do more than bring winter in his wake.

He’s gliding over a loosely populated rural area, tracing patterns with frost on the windows of passing cars, when the wind picks up a scream. The voice immediately snatches his focus away from the road. He veers in its direction without thinking and surges forward, hold tightening on his staff.

When he reaches the boy, there’s no doubt that the scream was his.

He’s out in the front garden of a small house, a shovel stuck into the snow by his side, abandoned. Gripping his hair with a heavy hand is a man, face clouded and heavy build, a green bottle of wine clutched in his other hand. The boy’s left cheek is struck red. He can’t be older than ten.

Rage and _pain_ flare up, and Nathaniel doesn’t have the time to question it. He aims his staff at the man’s chest and lets a gust of cold wind out. The man lets go of the kid as he staggers a few steps back, then stumbles and falls with a cry. Nathaniel spins around to aim his staff at the kid, helping him upon his feet with a breeze - then he unravels his wind, and the boy starts to run.

_Pain. Fear. Run._

Nathaniel pushes the thoughts away to focus on the boy running in front of him, making his steps wider, faster, keeping him up and moving, warding the cold away from him, taking him far and further still, everything to keep him running, as far away as he can, and _no one will stop him, don’t look back, I just have to keep running, I won’t let them find me -_

 

When the boy can’t run anymore, Nathaniel softens his wind to help him walk. Fear, hot and boiling, curls around his stomach. If his father has a car, they won’t make it.

They have to get off the road.

The boy barely hesitates when Nathaniel ushers him into the sparse forest boarding the road. His breaths are uneven and shallow and twined with sobs, but he keeps going. There are bruises poking out of his coat and crawling up his neck. His clothes are worn threadbare and too small, and his frame is too thin under the layers. He looks about ready to split in half at the next gust of wind.

Nathaniel knows he won’t.

“He won’t find you,” he says, and his own voice sounds odd to his ears after so long. Nathaniel knows the boy can’t hear him but when he straightens up and hurries his pace, he can’t help but feel that the message went through, one way or another.

 

They walk the whole afternoon away, until finally they reach the outskirts of a small town. The boy perks up when he spots the sign and Nathaniel lets him take the lead. He knows where he’s going, though he has to retrace his steps several times before they reach the center.

The boy walks with an air of determination on his face that keeps some of the weariness at bay. His breaths puff out little clouds of hot air in the sky and he shivers, sometimes. Nathaniel is doing his best to keep the cold from prying at his bones but he can’t conjure warmth no matter how hard he tries. He knows the boy must be close to his limit.

_Limits are weaknesses. Push them._

The smell of roasted chestnuts wafts down the street and the boy follows it, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk as soon as he spots the stall. It’s an old man who runs it, shuffling the chestnuts around in the wide pan. He looks unthreatening.

Nathaniel pushes the boy a few steps forward and he stumbles a little, then keeps walking until the old man notices him and smiles, greeting the boy in a language Nathaniel doesn’t know. The boy is reluctant to come closer, but when the old man offers a cone full of chestnuts he scuttles close and grabs it with a handful of mumbled words. The old man smiles, says something else. The boy holds the cone close, huddling around the warmth, and answers half-heartedly to whatever the old man is asking. As soon as another customer appears, however, the boy is gone.

Nathaniel follows him into a small street with no one in sight. The boy goes to sit on the first door steps he finds, and promptly start eating the chestnuts. He makes a mess of it, struggling to open the shells, leaving bits and pieces all around him, but when he’s finished he looks a little better off. His eyes flutter close and for a second Nathaniel worries he’s going to doze off, but he springs awake quickly and to his feet, and off he goes again.

It’s obvious the boy has more bearings in this part of town - he stops pausing at each crossing, and makes his way with sure, albeit slow steps. It’s not hard to figure out why when the boy rings a doorbell, and gets immediately engulfed into a startled, warm hug.

By the time the boy casts one last look into the streets before closing the door, Nathaniel is gone.

 

*

 

_A flicker of light catching on the blade of a cleaver. He’s angry._

 

_Hits, falling._

_Get back up or you’ll feel it this time._

_It hurts anyway._

 

_White hot pain fries his brain. Screaming. Struggling. You should have shut your mouth._

_The disinfectant hurts less, but the tears roll out anyway. It stops after the first slap._

 

_Difficulty breathing. Panic. Gunshots. It hurts._

_Run._

 

Nathaniel ignores his mind and helps the woman run away with her kid clutched in her arms.

 

*

 

The voice is flat, as neutral as can be. It’s probably only meant for the person who spoke. But it’s directed right at him.

“I thought being sober was supposed to make you stop seeing shit.”

Nathaniel freezes.

Four years, and he’s never met eyes with anyone. It’s enough to suck the air out of him.

The man puts out his cigarette in the snow and gets back inside. Nathaniel doesn’t move.

 _Don’t let them see you_.

The fact that for a split second, he allowed a slither of hope into his chest makes him feel sick. No one can see him and it’s better this way.

Still, Nathaniel can’t make himself leave. He floats over to the balcony where the man was instead, and tries to peer inside. There’s a table next to the window, and the man from before is sitting there typing on a laptop, an empty mug at his elbow. Broad shoulders, blond curls, black everything. His face is expressionless and the light from the screen reflects in his glasses. Behind him, Nathaniel can make out a kitchen counter, and a couch on the right. A cat leaps on it, then stretches, and rolls into a ball of fur to keep warm as it falls asleep. Nathaniel can’t quite remember what it feels like, but he thinks it must be nice.

He brushes his fingers against the window and watches the frost unfurl over the lower part of the glass panel before he leaves.

 

The wind doesn’t call him away that night, so Nathaniel decides to stay in Stuttgart.

 _Never stop running_ , his mother’s voice says. He ignores it.

 

*

 

Cats can see him.

Every animal can, really. But Nathaniel’s been spending time around cats the most lately. It shouldn’t feel so nice, to be seen. To exist for someone other than just himself, even if it’s only temporary. Even if it’s just a cat.

The blond man’s cat is nice. She’s lazy, but sometimes she asks to be let out on the balcony, and snuggles up next to Nathaniel while her owner goes back inside. She’s a little fat, and affectionate, and she loves chasing after the small mice Nathaniel makes out of frost on the wall.

She can’t touch him. But she seems to enjoy his presence, and Nathaniel is starting to realize that he does too.

He doesn’t come too often, though. Letting someone in, even this much, even a cat, makes the emptiness a little too painfully obvious to ignore. It’s a reminder, if nothing else.

Nathaniel probably needs it.

 

*

 

The things he learns about Andrew, he learns by accident.

His name was a sigh floating out of someone else’s lips.

Nathaniel had heard voices coming from inside one day when he was making frost bloom on the window, and Andrew had opened the balcony with another man in tow. He was a good head taller than Andrew, and darker in complexion - his eyes, his hair, his skin. His clothes, however, were brighter, and his face a lot more expressive.

Andrew had smoked, and the other man had talked about something, and the smoke had curled its fingers around Nathaniel’s neck and squeezed and squeezed until Andrew’s voice had blown it off.

“I’m not going.”

The man had shaken his head, and sighed. “Andrew.”

“Have Erik make his Black forest cake,” Andrew’d said, and stubbed his cigarette out on the railing before going back inside.

It’s the same man who tells him what Andrew does on his laptop.

They were out on the balcony again, although Andrew’s friend kept complaining about the cold.

“Nothing’s keeping you outside.”

The man had pouted, but there was a twinkle in his eyes. “If that’s what I get for braving the cold to spend more time with you, I don’t know if I’m going to come back.” Andrew had huffed, then - a quiet, soft sound - and the man had smiled. “Kidding, obviously. You’ve been spending so much time locked away working on that new book of yours, I was getting scared I’d forget your face.”

“You have Aaron for that.”

“I’m hurt that you’d even think I could ever confuse you too.”

“You’d be surprised,” Andrew had said then, and although his face was blank, Nathaniel could swear something akin to amusement had flickered in his expression, if only for a second.

 

He learns that Andrew drinks at least three hot cocoas a day, and that he when he can’t write he goes out for walks. He learns that Andrew dislikes the cold, but likes his cigarettes more. He learns that Andrew eats ice cream even in the middle of winter, and works out on a regular basis. He learns that Andrew never calls his cat by her name. He learns that Andrew talks to his cat. He learns that Andrew won’t scrape the frost off his window if Nathaniel makes it pretty.

He learns that Andrew will meet his eyes sometimes, but never long enough that Nathaniel can tell whether he notices.

He learns that Andrew’s eyes are hazel.

 

None of this fills the hole in Nathaniel’s chest, but it’s nice to pretend that it could.

 

*

 

Nathaniel has helped animals run away before. He has unleashed blizzards to blind hunters, and distracted their dogs away from burrows - but those animals had only needed him for a second to be able to escape. An injured cat in the middle of the city is a whole different ordeal, especially in the middle of winter. If it isn’t the wound that gets it, the cold will.

The cat hisses when Nathaniel wanders closer, so he stops and lowers himself to the ground, kneeling to make himself smaller. He shuffles forward slightly so he can see what exactly it is that’s wrong with the cat’s leg, but it’s such a mess of fur and blood that the only thing he can tell for certain is that it’s _bad_.

He has to make a decision, and quickly.

Nathaniel brings his staff towards the cat’s injured leg and coats it with ice, hoping it will stop the bleeding. It earns him a whine.

“It’s okay,” Nathaniel cooes, shuffling closer. “I know someone who’s going to take care of you.”

 

When Andrew opens the door to find a cat dying on his balcony, he sighs.

“Fuck’s sake.”

He crouches down anyway, and freezes when he sees the ice holding the wounded leg. For a second, Nathaniel thinks he’s going to look up and _see him_.

“I already have one of you monsters, you know,” Andrew says instead. The cat makes a truly pitiful attempt at meowing in response, and Andrew grabs his phone. “I’m not keeping you,” he tells the cat as he gets back up.

He comes back with a blanket and his phone pressed between his cheek and his shoulder.

 

Nathaniel spends the night on Andrew’s balcony.

 

Andrew brings the cat to a vet clinic the next day, and comes home with a new cat box a few days later.

Sir Fat Cat McCatterson (Nathaniel deduced that was her name after hearing Andrew’s friend call her that several times) immediately takes it upon herself to take care of the stray. Nathaniel sees Andrew talk to her from behind the window glass and smiles.

 

*

 

It’s a couple days later, as Nathaniel is making a frost mouse jump on the wall for Sir Fat Cat McCatterson, that Andrew meets his eyes again. Except this time he doesn’t look away.

The mouse evaporates in the wind, and the cat paws at the wall, then looks at Nathaniel and meows. When Nathaniel doesn’t even glance at her, she worms her way through the door, which Andrew still hasn’t closed behind him, with a wave of her tail.

Andrew has a cigarette pack and a lighter in one hand, and the door handle in the other. Nathaniel is kneeling on the opposite side of the balcony, a different kind of cold rushing through his veins.

_Don’t let them see you._

Andrew closes the door. It has no influence on his means of escape, but Nathaniel feels trapped anyway.

“This is my balcony,” Andrew notes, and lights a cigarette.

Nathaniel watches as Andrew settles with his back against the railing, facing him. His face is unsettlingly blank, but the cold is slowly turning his nose and cheeks a light pink. He has a hat on, his coat, a scarf, heavy boots. Why he would bother putting all of this on and step outside just to smoke is beyond Nathaniel.

“If you’re not real,” Andrew speaks the words with smoke, “now would be a good time to disappear.”

_Blood. Fire._

_Never stop running._

“You can see me?” Nathaniel blurts out. His voice comes out hoarse and strange, and so hopeful he feels sick.

Andrew takes another drag of his cigarette and slowly blows it out. “No,” he deadpans. Nathaniel frowns.

He watches as Andrew brings the cigarette to his lips one more time, then follows the wreaths of smoke as they wind up, coiling away in the light breeze.

“No one can see me,” he says.

“Hallucinations rarely are collective.” Nathaniel snatches his gaze back to Andrew.

“I’m not an hallucination.”

“No. You meddle too much for that.” Nathaniel frowns, and Andrew blows another cloud of smoke. “This is a flat, not a shelter.”

Nathaniel’s breath catches in his throat.

_Don’t let them notice you. Be invisible. Be everyone and no one at all._

“You knew.”

Andrew just stares at him.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I had better things to do.”

“What changed?”

Ashes twirl down from the balcony, dancing in the breeze. Andrew brings the cigarette back to his mouth. “I wonder.”

It takes a moment to click. “Your book.” Andrew raises an eyebrow. “You’re stuck.”

Another smoked exhale, slow and deliberate. The words come out of Andrew’s mouth tinged with it. “I just finished it, actually.”

The wind picks up, ruffling Andrew’s curls, and carries specks of glowing ashes far away.

“I don’t understand.”

“You were supposed to disappear once I was done.”

Nathaniel can’t figure out what Andrew is trying to say. It must show on his face, because after Andrew’s stubbed out his cigarette he says: “I was writing about the spirit of winter,” and then goes back inside.

The sound of the door closing shut echoes in Nathaniel’s chest like a bell before the cold takes it away.

 

*

 

“I’m not taking in another stray.” Nathaniel turns around from where he’s sitting on the railing of the balcony, and is met with Andrew’s blank stare. “I already have two.”

It’s the middle of the night. Nathaniel knows because he saw the time on a clock in passing, when he was gliding through the city to cover it with frost and a fresh sheet of snow. Andrew is wearing gloves this time, but no hat. There’s the distinct scratch of a lighter, then the crunch of snow being stepped on. Andrew leans with his elbows on the railing, gaze lost forward. The light from the window sheds warmth on his back and sharp lines along his arms.

“You were writing about me.”

Andrew throws a bored look his way, then takes a drag out of his cigarette. The smoke curls in and out of the light, drawing elusive shapes in the night.

“Hardly. I was writing about Mrs Holle’s grandson,” he says, and turns to drill his gaze into Nathaniel’s eyes. “Not some lonely stray.”

“I’m not lonely.”

“Yet you keep coming here.”

Nathaniel looks away, down into the street, and swallows the smell of fire down his throat. “Maybe I just like your cats. And I’m not a stray,” he feels compelled to say.

Andrew blows smoke into the sky, eyes trailing upward with it. “Then what are you?”

Nathaniel clutches his hold on the railing. A whisper of cold pours out with his breath, and a handful of snowflakes float down. He can feel Andrew’s eyes flickering toward him. “Winter,” Nathaniel simply says.

The end of Andrew’s cigarette flares up as he takes a drag, then taps the ash off against the railing.

“How’s King Fluffkins?” Andrew raises an eyebrow, so Nathaniel adds: “Your other cat’s name is Sir Fat Cat McCatterson. I don’t think you can judge me.”

Something tugs at the corner of Andrew’s lip. It’s gone just as quickly as it appeared and he turns away, letting his eyes wander forward. “The leg’s ruined, but he’ll be fine.”

“Good,” Nathaniel sighs.

Silence settles into the night. A handful of stars are blinking up above, scattered and far between; orange light spills from the street lamps in large pools on the fresh snow, lying untouched and unstained on the sidewalk and making strange shapes out of bushes and cars. The breeze falls, eventually.

“Do you have a name, or do I have to come up with one?”

Andrew’s cheek and nose are flushed pink from the cold, and his breath comes out in puffs of white, the smell of smoke lingering in the air even after he stubbed his cigarette. His expression gives nothing away, but something in his eyes makes Nathaniel blink a few times before he’s able to answer.

“Nathaniel,” he says. It burns his lips as it spills out.

_Alex. Stefan. Chris._

_Abram._

_Junior._

The name twists in his stomach, slicing him apart, and Nathaniel has to close his eyes to will the memory away. When he opens them, Andrew has leaned away from the railing and is looking at him, face as blank as ever.

“Mine’s Andrew,” he says.

Nathaniel blinks. “I know.”

Andrew casts one last look towards him before her gets back inside.

“Stalker.”

A laugh pops out of Nathaniel’s throat like a bubble, and both of Andrew’s eyebrows shoot up at the sound. Nathaniel freezes.

They stare at each other for no more than a second, but it feels like hours have passed when Andrew turns away and steps inside.

The night feels empty once Andrew’s closed the door.

 

Nathaniel spends the next two days far away from Stuttgart, unleashing the blizzard growing in his chest over Danemark.

It doesn’t really solve anything, but the turmoil of his broken memory settles.

 

*

 

Nathaniel is speeding up a young girl’s running with his wind when he catches a flash of blond curls over a black coat and is pulled to a stop. The girl carries on without him, her bullies long lost behind her.

Andrew doesn’t look surprised to see him.

His hands are buried in the pockets of his coat and his nose and cheeks are pink, and his scarf is coiled around his neck. His breathing makes little clouds of condensed droplets rise in the air.

“Andrew.” The name slips out. Andrew doesn’t react to it. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” Andrew says, raising an eyebrow. “I should be the one asking you, really. I thought we were finally going to get rid of all this snow.”

_Never sleep with your back to the door. Never stay in one place too long. Never look back._

“It’s still winter,” he manages. Andrew’s face is a blank slate.

“Won’t be for much longer.”

Nathaniel doesn’t know what to say to that, so he stays quiet. Eventually Andrew turns away and Nathaniel falls into step beside him. This isn’t Andrew’s neighborhood, per say, but it’s not far either. Closer to the center. The buildings look older, and there are more people milling about. Whenever someone walks through Nathaniel, they shiver. Andrew glances at him the first time it happens, but otherwise he seems as unfazed with the fact as he is about Nathaniel’s flying.

“Where are you going?” Nathaniel asks while they’re waiting at a crosswalk. Andrew meets his eyes for a second before the light turns to green.

“I have a meeting with my editor.”

“Why?”

“Editing,” Andrew deadpans.

Nathaniel scoffs. He lets his eyes wander over to a little girl who’s holding her mother’s hand and looking bored out of her mind, and angles his staff to aim just a little over her head. He lets a drop of cold shoot out, freezing three snowflakes into existence. The girl stares at them with wide eyes and immediately sticks her tongue out. It draws a smile out of him.

Andrew is staring when he turns back, but he looks away without meeting Nathaniel’s eyes.

“What’s the title?”

“Planning to read it?”

Nathaniel hums. “Maybe. I’ve never read a book about myself.”

“It’s not.”

“Close enough,” Nathaniel says, and shrugs. “I’m curious.”

“I’m flattered,” Andrew deadpans, then looks at him. “Don’t you have anything better to do than following people around?”

Nathaniel frowns. “I wasn’t following her.” Andrew raises his eyebrows, so he elaborates. “A couple of bullies had her cornered. I was helping her run.”

“I doubt that’s in your job description.”

“Bringing the winter is hardly a job,” Nathaniel snaps back, “it’s what I _am_. Helping people escape just... it feels right.”

“Really. And how’s that working for you?”

Nathaniel stops dead in his track. Andrew only notices after a few steps. He meets Nathaniel’s glare with a face so blank it makes Nathaniel’s skin boil.

 

_Gunshots. Pain. Blood._

_“Abram!”_

_Fire. The air is filled with smoke._

 

“Nathaniel.”

Nathaniel flinches so hard at the sound of his name that he takes a step back. Andrew is standing in front of him, eyes pinning him down. They’re a light shade of brown, and so unwavering Nathaniel can’t make himself look away.

His spit tastes like ashes when he swallows it down his throat.

“I’m fine.”

“If you say so,” Andrew says. He sounds bored.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Nathaniel repeats, clenching his staff with both hands to make them stop shaking. Andrew still isn’t moving. “Don’t you have a meeting?”

“Wymack can wait,” he says, but pulls away anyway. As soon as Nathaniel’s free from the weight of his stare he flies off.

 

When Sir Fat Cat McCatterson slips outside to play with Nathaniel that night, Andrew is right behind her.

“Hey.”

Andrew lights his cigarette and takes a drag out of it, then lets his gaze fall on Nathaniel as he blows out the smoke. It curls up, lazily, and dissipates in the wind.

“How did the meeting go?”

Andrew shrugs and leans back against the door.

Nathaniel is about to ask what that means when Sir meows demandingly, startling him. He quickly draws the shape of a mouse on the wall with the end of his staff and makes it run back and forth as Sir crouches down, ready to strike.

“When do you think it’ll be published?”

Nathaniel watches as a ribbon of smoke curls off from Andrew’s mouth into the sky, then drags his gaze back to Andrew’s eyes when he starts to speak.

“Probably in April.”

Nathaniel nods. He had figured he would be way up North by then.

“A shame.”

Andrew remains silent after that, so Nathaniel focuses back on Sir. He can feel the weight of Andrew’s eyes on him again, studying him, but he ignores it. A cat is quick to join the mouse on the wall, surprising a meow out of Sir. Then the cat turns into a bird and she starts clicking at it, then jumps after it. When she catches the bird, it shatters and reforms itself into a mouse, scuttling away to find the other one as Sir watches with wide eyes and a swaying tail.

Andrew’s voice drags Nathaniel’s focus away from the wall.

“I’ll save you a copy.”

Nathaniel freezes.

_Never stay in the same place twice._

“You can say no.” Andrew’s eyes are still on his, irises turned embers in the warm glow spilling out the window.

Nathaniel takes a deep breath, filling his chest with cold. “I don’t know where I’ll pass through next year.”

Andrew brings his cigarette to his lips and drags, then blows the smoke out in a huff.

“What are you running from?”

Nathaniel flinches, and earns a meow from Sir.

“I stopped running four years ago,” he says, forcing the words with intent, “when I _died_.”

There’s a silence, and Nathaniel almost thinks the conversation is over.

“Are you sure about that?” Andrew says then, flicking a bit of ash into the snow.

Nathaniel grits his teeth.

He thinks about spending years on the run with his mother. He thinks about his scars and her death, and how he couldn’t even make it two years alone without dying. He thinks about the cold, permanent, settled so deep into his bones he doubts he’ll ever feel warm again. He thinks about spending four years alone, unseen and unknown, hitching rides in people’s life for the time of an escape, as powerful as the wind but just as evasive, always moving.

He thinks about the first time he looked into Andrew’s eyes.

He looks up to look into his eyes now. They’re brown and unreadable and still and they _see him,_ but there’s something dangerous in his stomach and it’s crawling up his throat. Nathaniel swallows it down.

“No.”

“Then stop.”

“Like it’s that easy,” Nathaniel snarls at him. The wind flares around him.

“I never said it was,” Andrew voice cuts into the air like a knife. “But better now than when global warming lays you off.”

“What would _you_ know about it?”

Something snaps in Andrew’s composure. His body is too still, his jaw is too stiff, his eyes too hard. “Obviously more than you,” he grits out, and steps forward to grab Sir in his arms. Neil instinctively flinches back at the movement.

Then again as the door slams shut.

The end of Andrew’s cigarette lies forgotten by the door, put out by the thin layer of snow still covering the balcony. Nathaniel blows it over the edge out of spite.

 

*

 

He spends the next day roaming the city, trying to calm the flurry of his thoughts until the sun sets and he knows Andrew will step outside to smoke soon. He sits on the railing, his back to the street - and waits.

Sure enough, an hour or so later, the door swings open. Andrew doesn’t look surprised to see him, which means he must have seen him through the window. The fact that he decided to come out anyway slows down the wild beating of his heart a little.

“Hi,” he says, and feels a little stupid. Andrew’s lighter crackles; the red glow softens the hard lines of his face for a moment before it’s swallowed by the night. The end of the cigarette flickers alight, releasing a snake of smoke into the cold. Andrew’s stare is impassive, and Nathaniel figures he’s waiting for him to start talking. So he does.

He sucks in a deep, sharp breath tinged with smoke, and makes himself lock eyes with Andrew’s. A light breeze picks up, ruffling Nathaniel’s hair and sweater slightly, bringing hints of pink on the tip of Andrew’s nose. He isn’t wearing his hat or his gloves, and his chin is buried in his scarf.

“I started running when I was ten,” he drops out. Maybe it’s the silence, heavy and muffled, or the opacity of the sky, but he feels as if the air was trying to choke him. It feels too thick, almost solid and it _hurts_ , but the words keep spilling anyway. “At first it was with my mother, and then I was alone. I haven’t stopped since.” He pauses. Closes his eyes. _Never show your weaknesses._ “It’s as much a part of my life as breathing,” he confesses looking up.

Andrew meets his eyes without a so much as a twitch. It’s odd, that indifference would make him feel better, but it does. He knows, of course, that Andrew is listening - he always is, somehow, even when his friend scolds him for looking so obviously disinterested. But this is different, Nathaniel realizes. This is Andrew’s undivided attention. This is Andrew _seeing him_ , letting Nathaniel reveal what he chooses. Asking for nothing more than what Nathaniel is willing to give him.

It’s enough to loosen the knot compressing his chest. Nathaniel exhales.

 _Like ripping a bandaid_.

He puts his staff down against the railing and clutches his knees with both hands, willing them to still - then grabs the bottom of his sweater and pulls it over his head.

He doesn’t say _Running was better than staying_ , but it’s written all over his chest. It’s in the blades that split his skin apart, in the bruises that are long gone, carved in the lines barring his arms.

Andrew’s hand stills on his cigarette, and everything but for the stiffness of his posture speaks of boredom as he takes Nathaniel apart with his eyes - from the large gash on his stomach to the bullet wound next to his clavicule, to the scalded flesh on his shoulder. Nathaniel briefly wonders whether Andrew ever loses control over his facial expression, allowing the thought to take his mind away from the screams tearing his guts apart. ( _Keep quiet or I’ll give you reasons to scream_ , his memory supplies. Nathaniel’s nails bite into his palms through the sweater.)

When Andrew’s eyes come back up to meet Nathaniel’s he pulls the sweater back over his head and grabs his staff, pulling his focus into it to stop the shaking of his hands. The wood glistens with cold.

“I should have died four years ago,” he forces out, trying to keep a steady voice. “And I should have nothing to fear anymore, but everything around me is frozen. You’re the first person I’ve talked to in four years.”

Nathaniel drags his eyes away from his staff to look at Andrew. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed as he stares back, and Nathaniel distantly note that they’re probably the most expressive part of his face.

“You’re right, though. I won’t know until I try. And a second... _life_ kind of seems like the perfect opportunity.”

Andrew taps the ashes off his cigarette then brings it to his lips. Exhales. “Honesty doesn’t look good on you.”

Nathaniel frowns, then shrugs, throat feeling tight. He’ll get better at it, probably. For now it just itches under his skin.

“I’d like that copy,” he pushes through the discomfort, and smiles. “If your offer still stands.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment before Andrew steps forward to lean back on the railing next to him, the space between them narrower than Nathaniel expects.

The words slowly curl out of Andrew’s mouth like wisps. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

The silence around them keeps filling with smoke even as the wind takes it away in tides, to and fro like it did on the beach where Nathaniel watched his mother burn. Andrew’s face is bathed in light, catching reflections on his glasses and in his eyes, making them look softer. Andrew glances at him from the corner of his eye and stubs his cigarette out on the railing, standing straighter.

“Staring.”

“Sorry,” Nathaniel says, but doesn’t look away. Andrew opens the door then turns around. Nathaniel’s eyes wander past him, roaming over the kitchen counter in the back, the white walls, the plant sitting in a corner. It looks nice.

It looks like a home.

But Andrew still hasn’t stepped inside, so Nathaniel pulls his gaze back on him. He’s looking at him while holding the door open, the other hand deep in his pocket, one eyebrow raised like a question mark.

Nathaniel opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

“Do I have to explicitly invite you in like a vampire, or are you just waiting for my nose to fall off?”

“I,” Nathaniel swallows the lump back in his throat, “I haven’t been inside a building in four years.”

Andrew huffs out a breath. “You have too many issues.”

“Being the son of a mob boss will do that,” he says, not really hearing his own voice.

Andrew’s second eyebrow comes up. “And here I thought bringing winter was the most dramatic part of your life.”

The words start a dry laugh out of him and he jumps off the railing, stepping inside with a glance at Andrew’s bored expression. “Definitely the most unexpected.”

The soft click of the door closing behind him makes his heart jump in his throat, but Sir’s enthusiastic meow is quick to snatch his focus away. Nathaniel kneels to greet her with a quiet “Hi” as she steps closer, then veers off to rub against Andrew’s legs, purring when he leans down to scratch her head. Nathaniel stands up, then, and takes a few tentative steps towards the middle of the room, trying to keep his breathing even as he realizes that there’s no wind moving the air, that the parquet feels a little weird beneath his feet, that this is where Andrew has lived and woken up, every day, for years on end.

“It’s a nice place,” he manages to say. The words waver in the air and he feels lost, suddenly, standing in the middle of Andrew’s living room. It’s both too wide and too narrow and it echoes far away into his past, the sound so nostalgic that it _aches_.

“The other one is over there.” Andrew’s voice cuts through his thoughts and he turns to look at him - then follows the direction of Andrew’s gaze to the couch, where a ball of orange fur blinks a pair of blue eyes at him, then yawns.

Nathaniel blinks back.

“Oh.”

He can hear Andrew shrugging off his coat and untying his boots behind him. Then footsteps towards the kitchen, the softer pitter patter of Sir following suit. Nathaniel walks up to the couch feeling dizzy, and kneels in front of the cat.

“Hey.”

King blinks at him again. He’s cleaner than the last time Nathaniel saw him and healthier, too. If it weren’t for the white cast around his broken leg and the bit of his left ear that’s chopped off, he’d look just about any house cat.

He stays like this for a little while then, once he’s sure that King won’t mind, stands to sit next to him on the couch, laying his staff down on the ground. King watches him as he does so then lays his head back down, closes his eyes and starts to purr. The sound is so quiet, and so unexpected, that Nathaniel doesn’t notice until King shifts a little closer to him on the couch.

He’s distracted from the weird feeling tugging at his heart by Andrew’s voice asking him if he can drink. Nathaniel shakes his head and Andrew nods, drying a mug with a towel as Sir sits next to him on the counter, watching.

“Actually,” Nathaniel sits up, “maybe just hot water.”

Andrew pauses for a second and pulls another mug off of the drying rack, towelling it dry like the first one. Then he fills a small pot with water, and Nathaniel lets his eyes wander around the room, lingering on the huge bookshelf that takes over half of the wall on the left, from the room’s corner to the balcony door. He doesn’t recognise most of the titles but it’s not really a surprise, given he’s never really had any time to dedicate to literature - least of all German.

He moves on to Andrew’s desk by the window then, a bunch of papers and a few pens scattered around, a mug sitting by the laptop, keys, an opened book. The wall facing Nathaniel has three doors, the last one on the right with a larger build and a different shape - the front door, probably. Andrew’s coat lies discarded with his scarf on an armchair, boots on the floor next to it. There isn’t a lot of color all around, but it still feels homely and lived in, and distinctively Andrew’s.

The sound of footsteps pulls Nathaniel’s focus away from the armchair. Andrew looks... different, somehow, in just pants and a black, long-sleeved tee-shirt - and barefoot.

“Here,” he says, and Nathaniel takes the cup from him. He instinctively curls on himself a little, relishing in the warmth slowly seeping into his hands, and sighs. He knows the water will cool off too soon but he lets himself enjoy it anyway.

Maybe it’s just because he doesn’t have to keep the cold away, but Andrew looks almost relaxed, somehow, as he leans back into the couch and takes a sip out of his mug, meeting Nathaniel’s eyes over the steam. Nathaniel smiles.

“Thank you.”

“It’s water.”

“It’s warm,” Nathaniel corrects, adjusting his hold on the cup, then shrugs. “And you don’t have many people over.”

Andrew averts his eyes after a second, scratching Sir’s head absentmindedly as he sips away at his hot cocoa. Nathaniel doesn’t really think he’s going to get an answer until Andrew finally speaks, eyes facing forward. “I don’t have many people in my life.”

Nathaniel lets the words roll in his mind, struggling to grasp their meaning. A thought spills out of his mouth before he can hold it back, his control loosened somewhat by the surprise and the warmth. “I’m in your life?”

Andrew sends him a bored look, then drops it to King and back in front of him. “Gave me a cat, didn’t you.”

“I didn’t make you keep it,” Nathaniel says, not quite hearing himself speak. Andrew ignores him, so he focuses his attention on the warmth spreading from the mug instead, and settles more comfortably into the couch, sighing with ease. His eyes are just about to flutter shut when the sound of Andrew’s voice gets his attention.

“I’m not taking you in.”

Nathaniel blinks his eyes open.

“I’m not a stray.”

Andrew raises an eyebrow that Nathaniel’s pretty sure means he’s not convinced, but the emotions swirling in his chest are too conflicted for him to really care, so he lets it drop.

They sit in relative silence after that. Andrew gets up to his desk at some point - _editing_ , he mutters when Nathaniel asks - and the soft clicks of the keyboard alternate with the scratching of a pen against paper, King’s purring droning on as an hour goes by. It’s comforting, somehow, and soon enough the voices fighting in his chest have settled down, and Nathaniel can finally relax.

 

“Nathaniel.”

Nathaniel flinches violently, spilling drops of cold water on the floor. He takes a wild look around, then stiffens when his eyes fall on Andrew. He’s sitting at his desk with his upper body turned to face him, and there’s a slight frown on his face.

The name hangs in the air between them.

“You can reheat it,” Andrew finally says, pointing at the mug Nathaniel’s still holding in his hands.

“Ah,” Nathaniel says, glancing down. “Right.”

He gets up carefully, taking his time so he can slow down the race of his heart and will his legs into carrying him across the room. The small pot Andrew used to heat his water is still on the hotplate, so Nathaniel pours the content of the mug into it and turns the corresponding knob up. Andrew still hasn’t turned away.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Nathaniel tries to focus on the water in the pot and not the sound of his name in someone else’s mouth, unconsciously clenching his fists.

“I don’t really like my name,” he manages.

Andrew doesn’t bat an eye.

“Why?”

Nathaniel squeezes his eyes shut, and immediately regrets it.

_Light catching on a blade. A cold, sharp smile. Eyes like nitrogen, freezing him._

_Junior._

But he’s not there anymore.

“Nathan,” Nathaniel grits out, watching the bubbles rise to the surface, “was my father’s name.”

There’s a silence as Nathaniel turns the hotplate off, then: “So change it.”

Andrew has an arm draped over the back of his chair, the other on his desk, and he looks just as bored as Nathaniel expected. It’s almost grounding, in a way, how unfazed he is no matter what Nathaniel tells him.

“To what?”

Andrew gives him a half-shrug. “It’s your name.”

Nathaniel pours the water back into the cup, curling his fingers around it as he plays with the idea. It wouldn’t be the first time he changed his name, but it would be the first time that he did it out of _want_ instead of need. It would be the first time that he did it for himself, first and foremost. Not to appear as someone else. Not to survive - to live.

 _Abram_ , his mother’s voice supplies, but the sound burns a hole into his chest.

“Neil,” Nathaniel finally says.

Andrew’s eyes stay on him for a moment longer before turning back to his laptop.

 

They don’t talk much after that, but Andrew still manages to use his new name twice.

 

Andrew lets him stay.

Nathaniel spends the whole night reading and trying not to think about what it means to be allowed in someone’s space while they’re sleeping.

 

*

 

A few days have passed since then when Neil feels the wind call him away.

He’s spent all his nights in Andrew’s living room except one, when Andrew had dinner at his brother’s place ( _“Why are you going if you don’t want to?” “Because Nicky won’t shut up about it if I don’t. And his husband makes good cakes.”_ ), and has probably read more books in that short span of time than he had in his whole life until then. It still takes a second for him to remember how to breathe whenever he steps inside, or when the cats act like he’s as much a part of Andrew’s home as Andrew is, no matter how obvious Sir’s preference for Andrew is.

 _Winter is drawing to a close here_ , the wind sings through the streets of Stuttgart. The snow melts faster than it would take for Neil to make it fall. _You are needed elsewhere._

Andrew quirks an eyebrow when Neil shows up at his window only a few hours after leaving, but he grabs his coat and his pack of cigarette anyway, and joins him on the balcony. Neil watches him light up his cigarette in silence, breathing in the smoke as it wafts through the air. The frost he left behind in the wee hours is already gone.

“The snow is melting,” Neil says after a while. “I have to leave.”

Andrew glances down the street, making the end of his cigarette glow as he takes a long drag.

“Winter never lasts forever,” Andrew finally says, exhaling into the sky, “but it comes back all the same.”

Neil smiles. It hurts the skin of his cheeks. “Is that from your book?”

Something tugs at the corner of Andrew’s mouth as he turns to face Neil, flicking ash off his cigarette.

“You can find that out on your own.”

 

*

 

As Neil is crossing over the Arctic Ocean for the fifth time since his death he realizes that his sweater smells like smoke.

It’s gone by the time he reaches the North Pole.

 

*

 

Neil doesn’t know who takes care of bringing winter in the Southern hemisphere. Whoever it is, though, he’s grateful for the three months of sleep they allow him to clock once a year.

He’s grateful, as well, for the fact that his hibernation doesn’t come with dreams.

He doesn’t want to know what it would have been like otherwise.

 

*

 

The storm Neil unleashes to drive the Japanese whaleboat away is one of the most violent he’s called. It leaves him broken and numb, and colder than even he’s used to.

 

*

 

He’s halfway down Sweden when it happens for the first time.

 

“Are you Isa Holle?” the little boy asks in German, eyes wide and voice filled with wonder.

Neil freezes in mid air.

“Are you the one who made it snow yesterday?” the boy presses on. He’s looking right at him. “Or was it Oma Holle?”

“You can see me?” Neil stammers.

The boy nods excitedly in response, beaming in all the glory of his missing tooth. “Yeah! Of course! You’re _right here!_ Are you going to make it snow tonight too?”

“Yeah,” Neil says, because he is.

“ _Awesome!_ Okay I gotta go now, my friend won’t believe I saw you!” he exclaims as he saunters off, waving excitedly.

Neil doesn’t know what to make of it.

 

It happens again, once, in Poland, then twice in Denmark, once in the Netherlands, and about a dozen times in Germany, despite Neil doing his best to avoid children.

It isn’t until a red-headed girl yells “I hope they write another book about you soon!” at him as a goodbye in the middle of Hamburg that he figures it out.

 

*

 

Stuttgart looks the same.

He reached it earlier than last year, which is sure to make some people complain, but frankly he doesn’t care. The familiarity of it all ties a knot around his throat as he glides his way over to Andrew’s building. Landing on the balcony feels worse.

He takes a breath.

It comes out white as snow on the window, covering the whole pane in a thin layer of frost.

It doesn’t take long for Andrew to open the balcony door. He’s wearing his usual coat and boots, but his scarf is missing. There’s a book tucked under his left arm and a cigarette in his hand.

“Knocking would have been fine,” he says, and looks right into Neil’s eyes.

“Andrew.” The name spills out of his lips, breathless and a little painful.

“Neil.”

Andrew lights his cigarette up, inhales, blows out smoke like he was born with fire in his lungs. The air is incendiary.

“I came back.”

“You did,” Andrew says, and takes another drag. He grabs the book from under his arm and holds it out, the ghost of a smile playing with the smoke as he exhales.

Neil takes a step forward, gingerly bringing his hand forward - and immediately snatches it away as one of his fingers brushes against Andrew’s.

Warmth tingles in Neil’s hand.

“Neil.”

Neil looks up, meeting Andrew’s waiting eyes.

Neil knows he can’t touch anything that’s alive. It hasn’t changed since the first time he tried five years ago. Neil knows this as well as he knows that hope is a treacherous, foolish thing. He knows it because he drilled it, numerous time, into his mind until the memory of it was lost.

At least he thought he had.

Neil trails his eyes along Andrew’s arm down to his hand, outstretched where the book was. It’s an invitation. Gingerly, Neil takes it.

 

Andrew’s hand is warm. His skin is soft, a little dry. Neil can feel the folds of his palm, and the shape of his bones underneath, the tendons and the muscles, pressed flush against his own. He can feel the blood rush in at the rhythm of his heart.

Neil looks up, again. Andrew’s expression hasn’t moved.

“I think you did this,” Neil says, feeling both lost and grounded in Andrew’s eyes. “The kids who read your book. Some of them can see me.”

“I doubt that’s all it takes.”

“I don’t know.” Neil looks down and shifts his hold around Andrew’s hand a little, trying to remember if holding hands always felt like being struck by lightning. He doesn’t think so, but the memories are so distant, and Andrew is right here. Holding his gaze. His eyes are brown - almost golden. “You were the first one who saw me.”

Andrew raises his eyebrows, looking entirely unimpressed. “Cheesy.”

Neil smiles, shrugs.

“Nine months is a long time.”

Andrew lets his cigarette drop on the balcony and takes a step into Neil’s space, making Neil’s heart jump in his chest. His eyes flicker down to Neil’s mouth for a second.

“Yes or no?”

Neil thinks about the first time he looked into Andrew’s eyes. He thinks about looking into Andrew’s eyes now.

“Yes,” he breathes.

Something fizzles in the air between them, and then Andrew’s mouth is on his. Neil’s staff clatters on the ground, the sound swallowed by his own heartbeat as Andrew takes him apart.

Everything about Andrew is hot, and it burns against Neil’s lips and flares inside his mouth and it bursts, wild and searing, into his chest. The wind, the world, the cold, everything disappears but for the juncture of their lips, the soft pressure, the warmth, the _want_ \- slow and hungry, uncoiling in Neil’s stomach but still half-asleep and content, warm - buzzing through his fingertips.

Andrew pulls away after what could be a second, a day, a year, and Neil sucks in a sharp breath as his blinks his eyes open. His back is pressed against the railing and Andrew has one hand holding his wrist while the other is still warm in his own, and there’s frost blooming from the bottom of the balcony to the top of the building.

“Oh,” Neil says.

Smoke and heat pulse on his lips and he chases it with the tip of his tongue without thinking. Andrew’s eyes follow the movement.

“Staring,” Neil says, too dizzy to hold back a smile.

Andrew shoves the book against his chest and pulls Neil inside.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave kudos and a comment! Even if it's just one word, it would literally mean to world to me.  
> (Also if I get a positive response on this, I might write a short sequel? Idk there are a lot of things I could explore, just let me know if you'd be interested.)


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